Read Online Self by Yann Martel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Yann Martel
Tags: General Fiction
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to ooze oil again, my face would feel dry, expressive, presentable. This cleanser — the version marketed for adults is for washing motor oil and the like from one’s hands — is an excellent product, and I would recommend it to anyone who wishes to erase his or her face, as I wished.
Dermatologists — when I finally allowed my condition to be acknowledged and discussed — were consulted and I religiously applied their expensive creams and swallowed their expensive pills, to no effect. I treated myself. Clogged pores were quickly dispatched, their corks of blackness squeezed out. Large yellow pimples I relished, for they were easy to remedy; with my fingers wrapped in toilet paper for a better grip, I would nudge and squeeze each offender until it broke with that minute tearing sound of exploding pus. Pus, clear liquid and blood would be wiped away; all that was left was a tiny crater, a little red around the rim, nothing more. Soon it would disappear (not soon enough!) But not all my pimples were this easy. Many were red, not yellow, their lava of putrefaction not yet ready to erupt. They would simmer on myface, angry, lumpy, disfiguring. I would squeeze them anyway, hoping to accelerate the volcanic process, which would only make them angrier and redder.
It was not uncommon that this disease reduced me to tears. I informed myself about acne vulgaris , but talk of hormonal imbalances and dietary co-factors did nothing to appease me. The humiliation and ugliness were too great to be explained away by biology.
But there was splendour, too. At a time when many of my classmates were losing interest in their studies, I awoke to them. I was lucky to have several good teachers at my high school, who kindled my intellectual interests. Because I had a good geography teacher, I became interested in geography. The same with Latin, history, biology and mathematics. I began to read voraciously. I blossomed in the regimental order of organized education. In slots of forty-five minutes, without effort, I consumed centuries of accumulated knowledge in the sciences and the humanities. Mesopotamia struggled to fertility, the Roman Empire grew and shone, the Dark Ages blew the candle out, the Middle Ages flickered, the Renaissance blazed, the Industrial Revolution roared, the world fought twice, the Germans killed six million Jews, the United Nations was set up, the moon was trodden upon, and onwards, onwards — it was all there in my notes. Artesian wells, plate tectonics, Caesar’s invasion of tripartite Gaul, the Treaty of Westminster, Krebs’ cycle, Vasco da Gama, quadratic equations, the Domesday Book, Huckleberry Finn, Edward the Confessor, Tycho Brahe, the Neolithic period — none hid their secrets from me.
These were the years of two seasons: summer and the sacred September to June school year. Everything fitted into this cycle.Jesus Christ carefully had himself born and crucified during the holidays. Queen Victoria chose another such day for her birthday. Surely Alexander the Great stampeded across Asia on weekends only. Nothing disturbed the grand march of the school year — or only the occasional dental or medical appointment, when I would stare with incomprehension from the taxi at all the people in the streets. What were they doing out like this? How could they stand the loitering? I would hurry back to dissecting frogs and Shakespeare, back to doctors Banting and Zhivago. I saw my life as a straight, upwards staircase, with education as my handrail. After the usual academic landings — B.A, M.A, Ph.D; Toronto, Oxford, Harvard — I would start my climb for the ultimate landing: the prime-ministership of Canada.
I wasn’t settled on which constituency I would represent — my sentimental favourite was Jack London’s Yukon, but it was so far away; I liked the word “Algoma” and it was Pearson’s old riding — but my address was certain: 24 Sussex Drive, Ottawa. While waiting to move in, I honed my political
Dermatologists — when I finally allowed my condition to be acknowledged and discussed — were consulted and I religiously applied their expensive creams and swallowed their expensive pills, to no effect. I treated myself. Clogged pores were quickly dispatched, their corks of blackness squeezed out. Large yellow pimples I relished, for they were easy to remedy; with my fingers wrapped in toilet paper for a better grip, I would nudge and squeeze each offender until it broke with that minute tearing sound of exploding pus. Pus, clear liquid and blood would be wiped away; all that was left was a tiny crater, a little red around the rim, nothing more. Soon it would disappear (not soon enough!) But not all my pimples were this easy. Many were red, not yellow, their lava of putrefaction not yet ready to erupt. They would simmer on myface, angry, lumpy, disfiguring. I would squeeze them anyway, hoping to accelerate the volcanic process, which would only make them angrier and redder.
It was not uncommon that this disease reduced me to tears. I informed myself about acne vulgaris , but talk of hormonal imbalances and dietary co-factors did nothing to appease me. The humiliation and ugliness were too great to be explained away by biology.
But there was splendour, too. At a time when many of my classmates were losing interest in their studies, I awoke to them. I was lucky to have several good teachers at my high school, who kindled my intellectual interests. Because I had a good geography teacher, I became interested in geography. The same with Latin, history, biology and mathematics. I began to read voraciously. I blossomed in the regimental order of organized education. In slots of forty-five minutes, without effort, I consumed centuries of accumulated knowledge in the sciences and the humanities. Mesopotamia struggled to fertility, the Roman Empire grew and shone, the Dark Ages blew the candle out, the Middle Ages flickered, the Renaissance blazed, the Industrial Revolution roared, the world fought twice, the Germans killed six million Jews, the United Nations was set up, the moon was trodden upon, and onwards, onwards — it was all there in my notes. Artesian wells, plate tectonics, Caesar’s invasion of tripartite Gaul, the Treaty of Westminster, Krebs’ cycle, Vasco da Gama, quadratic equations, the Domesday Book, Huckleberry Finn, Edward the Confessor, Tycho Brahe, the Neolithic period — none hid their secrets from me.
These were the years of two seasons: summer and the sacred September to June school year. Everything fitted into this cycle.Jesus Christ carefully had himself born and crucified during the holidays. Queen Victoria chose another such day for her birthday. Surely Alexander the Great stampeded across Asia on weekends only. Nothing disturbed the grand march of the school year — or only the occasional dental or medical appointment, when I would stare with incomprehension from the taxi at all the people in the streets. What were they doing out like this? How could they stand the loitering? I would hurry back to dissecting frogs and Shakespeare, back to doctors Banting and Zhivago. I saw my life as a straight, upwards staircase, with education as my handrail. After the usual academic landings — B.A, M.A, Ph.D; Toronto, Oxford, Harvard — I would start my climb for the ultimate landing: the prime-ministership of Canada.
I wasn’t settled on which constituency I would represent — my sentimental favourite was Jack London’s Yukon, but it was so far away; I liked the word “Algoma” and it was Pearson’s old riding — but my address was certain: 24 Sussex Drive, Ottawa. While waiting to move in, I honed my political
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